LowComDom Performances Presents
The Crapolla According to Fek'Lar
You Know You're DOOMED When...
people make fun of you because you can bounce a rock off only 3 ricshaws.
You've stumbled onto another issue of The Crapolla, a journal written for software professionals. No not the managers; I mean the people who do the work.
This Crapolla is sponsored by...
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In This Issue...
Holing Up in the Bunker
How much do the Indians make?
Squeaky (In the clean room)
Your mileage may vary but, in general, the worker makes about 10 percent of what the American would make. However, if you out-source through a second company, you'll pay about half of what the American made. The out-source company makes out like a bandit.
Some things in this world never make sense to me. I hold the opinion that most famous people really aren't any more valuable than anyone else. (I didn't understand that whole Princess Diana thing either.) It's not like this guy had saved a burning school bus full of kids, and then someone shot him in the head. He was simply an actor. He had a long fruitful life. But apparently, to some people, he was God incarnate.
Dr. Rajkumar had a 50 year career in the Kannada cinema. The guy who makes the Chi tea at the office told me about his death. I had never heard of this guy, but the Chi maker (who looks about 15) looked disturbed. I told him it was a sad day, and made a note to myself to ask Pradeep who Rajkumar was.
Bangalore is in the state of Karnataka. As more people move from all over India, they don't know the local culture. (India is made up of many peoples, cultures, languages, calendars, and regions.) The Kannada culture has been getting watered down for a number of years. Dr. Rajkumar became a champion of the local culture by making movies in the local language, depicting the culture. Many referred to him as their big brother. That would be a huge complement considering how important family is here.
Much of Bangalore shut down that afternoon. The building I was in was stormed by a mob demanding we stop work. Any car without a picture of Dr. Rajkumar on the windshield had that windshield smashed. The streets were almost empty on the way back to the hotel. The front gate was chained shut, and my driver was told to bring me through the back. The lobby was almost un-lit, and I had to take the stairs because the elevators were turned off. Most TV stations were blacked out. You could watch news, or watch a Dr. Rajkumar movie.
In the morning Pradeep called to let me know that no secure transportation was available. We would not be working. I'm stayed in the hotel, reading a book, and eating banana splits. The hotel is out of Diet Coke. I'm roughing it.
The funeral was at the cricket stadium, and of course it got out of hand. After the funeral, the mob looted, and burned cars in the street. I decided then and there that when I die, I want the same treatment. I want an Irish Wake, and riots. But let's hope the same crap doesn't happen in when Shatner dies. The Trekkies will have phasers set on kill.
The worst food in Bangalore is served by my hotel. It's not that the quality is bad, it's that the people making the western food have never eaten the real McCoy, and thus have no idea what they are doing. For example, I ordered a pizza with olives. The pizza arrived covered in green olives. Technically, it's what I ordered, but it's not what I wanted. This turned out to be a very common problem with the hotel food. The Kentucky Chicken Burger turned out to be a chicken sausage patty on a bun. The poor Colonel was spinning in his grave.
On side note, it turns out everywhere you go in Bangalore, if they sell chicken, they want to associate the word Kentucky. They have no idea what it means, but Kentucky and chicken must go together. What's lots of fun is seeing how they spell Kentucky. Centuky, and Kentucy, are just a few examples of the abuses the Unbridled Spirit State must face in India. But I digress.
Back home, I am what is known as a picky eater. The truth is, I hate most food. How the rest of you eat biter green stuff, I don't know. I also like to subscribe to that saying, "I didn't claw my way up the food chain to eat vegetables." But I'm in India, and I want to eat what the locals eat. The crappy food in the hotel is an obvious sign that if you want the good stuff, eat what they eat.
On the first day of class, my students took me to the Paramount Hotel which also has a restaurant. This place isn't catering to the westerners like mine. The menu is all Indian food. My students give me a little advise, and I order a mutton curry, some rice, and some rotis. Roti is one form of Indian bread.
The curry is spicy, yet smooth. If you can't take Tabasco sauce in your morning oatmeal, this food isn't for you. The rice puts out the fire when it gets too hot, and the roti helps you mop your plate at the end of the meal. I like this, I'll be eating a lot of mutton curry. But it turned out I would be eating many more things, some of which would surprise me.
The day after the riots was New Years Day on one of the many Indian calendars. There are many cultures within India, and not everyone counts the days the same. Pradeep invited me to his parents' place for lunch. I knew this was both an honor and a big opportunity for me to screw up. It was an honor because around the world, food is the ultimate gift. When someone invites you to food on a very important day, it's a bigger gift. But I could also walk in like a brainless American and embarrass Pradeep in front of his family.
My driver dropped me at the correct house. An older man waved, I waved back. Pradeep greeted me and told me the man was his father. Before entering, I removed my shoes and socks. Pradeep told me that was not necessary. I told him it was. I would not insult his parents. He asked how I knew to do this, and I replied, "I'm in India."
I met the rest of the family, his mother, wife, and sister. They had done all the cooking.
Today marked the beginning of a month of vegetarianism. Oh, lucky me! My plate was a banana leaf. About ten samples of different foods were placed in their own small heap, each another form of rabbit food. I started from the upper left and worked my way around clock-wise. To my utter amazement, the food was great. There was maybe one item I really didn't want to finish, but otherwise, I was wondering how I was going to eat it all.
I've been to other developing nations, and know that food is not something you waste. Pradeep who is skinny as a rail is able to put this much food away, but I was going to need a crane to get me out of the house if I ate it all. Pradeep insisted that I not attempt to eat everything, and assured me it would not be an insult.
On the way out, I thanked Pradeep's father for inviting me into his home, and then I turned to the ladies who had done all the work. I raised my hands in the Namaste salute to each of them and gave a little bow. Pradeep raised his hands and asked me how I knew about this.
I said, "I'm in India."
Sorry dude, there were going to be no free answers to these questions about how I knew anything about his culture. I do my research. When Pradeep was in the U.S., he observed our common courtesies. It's the least I can do to make the same effort in his country. Besides, this always opens doors.
Chinese food is interesting. My Uncle died in 1999. I went to Idaho for the funeral. After, his friends took us to lunch at a Chinese restaurant. There were no Asians in the place. The Chow Mien had cheese on it. In India, Chinese food is hotter than hell. I had a dish called Devil's Lamb. You didn't dare eat this unless there was rice on your plate waiting to put out the fire. The pain was exquisite. I went back another day for more. Chinese food always seems to get localized to the point where I think the only place you can eat Chinese food and say you actually had Chinese food is China.
Cancer-Causing Chemicals from Tobacco Smoke Found in Baby Urine
Second-Hand Pee Kills!
Heard in the halls of various software companies.
"I came in 45th in the World Series of Solitaire!"
"Stop, you idiot! It's twist, then pull. Just like a beer."
"Just like a beer? Great! Now I know how to open doors!"
"I lost a bet. I didn't think he could pass half a pound of cottage cheese through his nose."
I've got to pack my swimming suit.
(They pay me to think. These are my thoughts. Do you think they are getting their money's worth?)
Remember: The Crapolla contains my personal opinions. That's right they're mine, so get your own! And you kids get off my lawn!
Although written with the software professional in mind, my mind tends to wander all over the place, and I sometimes write about politics, mass stoopidity, dumb things I saw, and whatever else comes to mind.
From time to time, I use salty language, thus The Crapolla is not intended for children, or certain people in the Bush Administration.
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